There are some who thrive on being cloistered away in the recesses of their home, or on some remote corner of the planet, miles away from the daily maelstrom of society. If they can order things delivered rather than face the crowd, or watch it from the comfort of their couch, they see no need to associate with those outside their four walls.
I am not one of those people.
I need the world.
When I’m alone for too long, I feel like a houseplant who has been kept in a dark room, far from the warming rays of the sun. I wither a bit inside, slowly at first, but over time, it’s noticeable.
Eight years ago, I embarked on a solo act as I switched the trajectory of my teaching career from American Lit courses at a high school to full time Theatre in middle. Ignorant of the weight I’d be carrying as a solo director and teacher of the subject, I just assumed all of the responsibility was mine and nobody would share it with me.
At first, there was freedom in being the one to call the shots, because I had always been but one small cog in the wheel of a large group of colleagues, and now, my ideas flowed like a glacier waterfall thawing after lying dormant all winter. I craved this creative outlet, trying to elevate each show season just a bit more than the one before it. I built a foundation and grew my program, despite the crippling hours and curriculum trial and errors. At the end of every run, I’d stand at the back of the house, marveling at these young performers and humbled by the armada of parent volunteers who saw my need for “all hands on deck.” Many happy hours of camaraderie over costumes, paint, and set construction fulfilled me.
Then, suddenly, it seemed, everything went topsy turvy, and the next thing I knew, I had a shift in the form of a combative partner who was transferred to us, and carried a chip on their shoulder that I could not repair. I won’t delve into the messy bits, but I’ll keep it straightforward—we were a terrible fit and it damaged my program, but more devastating, it caused a chasm to form for my students and disintegrated my livelihood. It took all I had in me not to quit, and I dug in my heels. No help came and I began to drown. When I got so low I did not think there’d ever be sun, three years of this torment later, the clouds parted, and I was suddenly free of it. Although awash with relief, it brought me back to “what happens next?”
Fate shifted my circumstances again, and I gained a partner who was much more pleasant, creative, and charismatic with our students, who were just praying for bluer skies and less turbulent waters. Things were looking up, but I knew it had a shelf life, with more certainty than the first rodeo. My foolish heart thought I could repair what had been broken for this colleague (false Emily Dickinson “fainting robins” motto hope), but I wasn’t able to. Unfortunately, this new opportunity for growth and peaceful times didn’t last either, not even a full 365, and I know now that it wasn’t meant to—I was a softer landing than the one before, a gentler end for them. Though I’m disappointed, I understand that everyone’s timing is not mine.
Now, I’m a solo act again.
Only this time, it feels different.
Strangely alienating and hollow.
This time, it has me wondering if I’m enough. I tried so hard to do all the things, to be everything for everyone, but in the end, I felt like I fell short of what was needed to succeed.
This time, it has found me blaming myself that I can’t find a partner who wants this tandem journey as much as I do, but I can’t help wondering—what is wrong with me? Is it time to accept that this is all I’ll ever be if I remain where I am?
After finishing my latest production, and thanking the unbelievable village of helpers and volunteers, I feel more unsure than I did when I knew there was nobody else to hold me accountable but myself.
In the “before times,” I was surefooted, charging ahead from one task to the next with a clear vision of my aesthetic and my purpose, forever checking off a list to see it through to completion. I meant business with deadlines and I met them long before they were due. Now, I’m left with this “last-minute Lucy” sensation and it irks me—mainly because I know I can do better, because I used to be better.
Where has the old me gone?
What is to become of me?
What if I am doomed to fall short and never rise from the ashes of the past four years?
What if I’m just surviving, and not thriving anymore?
These, and many ponderous topics have me feeling foggy-headed and bleary-eyed, as I stare down the next big thing, with something akin to dread.
You see, I have this hunger to seek out like-minded souls who think outside the lines, and can create a vision within the walls we govern.
From the outside looking in, it seems pathetic to be alone in such a connected performing art, but maybe this is not my swan song.
Maybe this second solo act is my phoenix anthem.
I may simultaneously rise from the ashes of my former self and lift others, too.
It’s time to flip the narrative.
Dim the lights, kindreds, and settle in.
The curtain’s rising. Cue music.
Act Two has just begun.
-Kindred Spirit-
1.30.24
Kindred Spirit: A Journey 